Scars
by chrissie0707
Summary: Sam's looking like he's ready to get vertical but Dean is comfy making friends with the floor. Turns out hardwood isn't all that uncomfortable when you haven't slept in days and you're pretty positive your head will explode if you try to stand. S2, BUABS Tag. Brief language.


_Scars_

Sam's limbs are flailing about with the harsh, jerky movements that must come from getting your body back under your own control. Like it's brand new, like a foal standing for the first time. His hand comes away from his cheek and the color runs from his face as his eyes find the smudge of crimson staining his right thumb, a thin trail running down his forearm. He swallows and suddenly looks sick, feet crabbing backward as he scoots into a more rigid seated position against the bookcase. "Dean. Is this…is this your blood?"

He has no intention of answering that question, but one glimpse of Sammy's shocked face and Dean figures he doesn't even need to. He rolls his eyes and lays his head back so he doesn't have to look at Sam anymore. Little brother's expression is a cocktail of confused and alarmed, and it's scary how much the demon got right when she was pulling the strings.

Sam's also looking like he's ready to get vertical but Dean is comfy making friends with the floor. Turns out hardwood isn't all that uncomfortable when you haven't slept in days and you're pretty positive your head will explode if you try to stand. But Bobby caught the last act and is approaching with all manner of intent in his eyes, so Dean releases the death grip he's got on his shoulder and rolls himself back into a somewhat seated position with a groan. He tries to wipe some of the blood from his face with the hand that isn't tingling, figures he just smears it around a little.

Bobby and Sam make eye contact over his head and before Dean can protest or shove himself upright they stoop in tandem to grip his arms and haul him to his feet, but let him cross the study almost entirely under his own power. They line his ass up with the seat of a chair before letting go completely and he does little more than collapse backwards, gives Bobby a tired, grateful nod.

Sam sinks into a second chair on the other side of the desk, clamps a hand over the fresh burn on his arm and watches his brother with a pathetic expression. He looks like a puppy that's just been caught pissing on the carpet, but Dean's not really feeling up to giving the kid a comforting pat on the head, so he spins around so they aren't facing each other. A little too quickly for his body's liking, based on the siren suddenly going off in his head and the steady thrum in the hot, puffy skin around his left eye, like his heart is right there beneath the blooming bruises.

Dean can only assume he looks at least half as bad as he feels, to judge the expression on Bobby's face. "I'll see if I can find some things for you boys," he mumbles gently and backs into the kitchen, leaving the two of them to sit in a silence that's long and uncomfortable mostly just because Dean can't yet rummage up the energy to form words. He comes back with a pair of cold compresses and is pulled away again immediately by one of the phones ringing in the other room.

Dean uses the compress to hide his expression as he fists his left hand where it lies like a dead fish against his thigh, feels the fire in the hole in his shoulder and immediately relaxes his fingers. He fails to bite back a hiss, hears the scuff of Sam's chair scooting closer.

"Dean."

He ignores his brother, hopes that's more than enough to communicate _Don't fucking talk about it, Sammy._

Sam takes the hint but even so, he swallows and cautiously, bravely ventures, "By the way, you really look like crap, Dean."

* * *

The interstate lights are curiously dimming and brightening in some sort of odd, random pattern, but then Dean's chin bumps his chest and he realizes it's not the lights winking out, it's him.

"Dean."

"Yeah."

Yeah, Sam realizes it, too, and Dean's not looking to get the bitch out of his little brother just in time to plaster the poor kid all over a concrete median somewhere in the middle of the Dakotas. So he pulls off at the next exit and doesn't seek to irritate Sam by finding the cheapest or most eclectic motel, just the closest. One of the chains, so he breaks that rule, and does so with gusto, because there's a timer running on the number of minutes he's got left walking around.

"I'll get us a room."

Dean actually laughs, a short bark that jostles everything he's been trying so damn hard to keep still, because Sammy says it like he's doing Dean a favor, instead of exercising their only possible option. Dean hasn't yet looked at himself, but he knows full well he's more likely to get the cops called than a good deal on a room for the night.

Dean's leaning heavily against the Impala's hood when Sam comes back with the keys, and he doesn't grab his bag from the car before he moves toward the coordinating door. He doesn't turn on a light, doesn't shuck his bloody jacket or muddy boots, just lifts a pillow from the bed that will be Sam's as he moves mechanically across the room to fall back gently onto the mattress he thus claims as his. Does it all without a word.

Sam doesn't hear the timer, just hears the guilt roiling, and he makes a protesting sound from the doorway as he steps forward.

Dean folds the stolen pillow in half and stuffs it under his shoulder. He levels up enough to stop his brother with a glare, fights a wince at the rocket ship taking off in his head. "I'm gonna go to sleep now, Sammy. Don't touch me. Don't look at me. And if you even think about waking me up in an hour, I'm gonna break your damn nose." Covers all the bases, for good measure.

He lays back, closes his eyes and sighs, knowing he won't be able to rest yet because he can sense the quivering lip from here. Sammy's gonna think he's mad, and he's not. He's really not, he's just DONE. Dean raises his head again, tries to smile but it hurts every last inch of his battered face. "We good?"

"We're good." Sam nods tightly. "But…"

"No. No 'but.'"

"Dean, I…I know how hard I hit you." Sam shakes his head. He's holding Dean's bag, brought it in from the car like that makes up for everything. He drops it lightly to the floor and stares down at his hand, the bruised knuckles that match every mark screaming from Dean's face. "I felt it."

"Well, what can I tell ya, you hit like a girl." Dean sniffs, breath whistling over dried blood, a scab the size and shape of one of those giant knuckles.

His eyes fall closed more than he makes a conscious decision to close them, and he's well on the way to drifting off when he hears the jangle of his baby's keys. He has to swallow before speaking, doesn't lift his head or even open his eyes, because he knows the room would be doing all sorts of crazy things around him if he did. "What do you think you're doing?"

Sam audibly shuffles his feet on the short carpet, squirming like a caught child. "I'm just gonna get some air."

"Then open a window."

"Dean."

"No, Sam. Get comfy, because you're not leavin' this fucking room." Manages not to pass out until he hears the keys drop back to the table.

* * *

His hands are red and chapped from washing them all night but a hundred times isn't enough, because he still sees Dean's blood there staining his fingers, real or phantom.

Sam tells Dean that he doesn't remember everything because Dean doesn't want him to. But he does. He remembers Jo's fear and Dean's pain, and the wash of satisfaction the demon felt when his brother went toppling off of the deck in Duluth into the icy water below. He remembers the look in Dean's eyes, and the demon's glee as it used Sam's voice and body to hurt him.

"Dude. Sammy, stop." Quiet and calm and exactly like a big brother should sound when the little guy is upset, but Sam doesn't deserve it.

He shuts off the tap and goes about drying his wet hands, turns to see a ghostly pale version of his brother leaning in the doorway. He's finally taken off his jacket but the dried bloodstain on his t-shirt is even worse. Dean's left arm is hanging awkwardly, tucked against his side, hand clenched into a white fist.

They can't go waltzing into an ER because gunshot wounds bring cops and Sam can't be certain which police stations do or don't have a mug shot of his brother plastered on their walls. He swallows the guilt. "You feeling any better?"

Dean just sighs. He pulls up from the wall and walks to the table in a line that's almost convincingly straight, does little more than fall into a chair.

Sam stands in the bright light of the bathroom. He stretches his arm out and makes a fist, studies the biceps and triceps flexing and relaxing under his control. He glances up when Dean groans, adjusting into whatever comfortable position he can manage across the room.

The guilt punches Sam in the stomach. "We should have let Bobby do something about your shoulder."

"He gave me some stuff."

"Antibiotics?"

"Yeah."

"Did you take any?"

Dean sighs, grips his shoulder to stabilize his arm and scoots awkwardly to the edge of his seat. He tugs a pill bottle from the pocket of his jacket and rolls it across the table towards Sam. It goes right over the edge and thuds lightly to the carpet. "Was a full bottle. You can count 'em if you want."

"No, that's okay." But Sam's not completely satisfied. He can't just sit here and watch Dean swallow the pain that _he_ caused because he doesn't want Sam to feel bad. "I think we should try to find somewhere – "

"It's really okay, Sam."

"Dean, if this kind of thing goes untreated, it can lead to permanent nerve damage."

"What'd you do? Spend all night on WebMD?"

"That's not the point."

Dean chuckles tiredly. "Sammy, believe me when I say that your choice in music has caused more damage to my nerves than that little bullet did."

"Are you a doctor now? When did that happen?"

"Look," Dean sighs. He wiggles his fingers and bites his lip against the pain. Not entirely convincing. "I can move 'em and everything."

"Dean."

Dean releases his arm, tries to slump in a more characteristically casual manner, and fails horribly. "Sam. I'm alive, you're alive, demon bitch is…I dunno where. But not here, and that's more than fine for now. I'll take it."

Sam nods, because Dean's using the tone that doesn't invite any more argument. The one he inherited from Dad. He leans on the counter and scratches at the gauze pad covering the burn on his arm.

"You know what else I'd take?"

Sam raises his eyes. "What?"

"Some pie." Dean's color isn't entirely back, but his easy grin is. "Seriously, Sammy, I'm friggin' starving. Hop to it."

Pie is the least Sam can do. He returns the grin and moves to grab the keys to the Impala. "You got it."

* * *

 _Thanks to NoilyPrat for catching my typo. *facepalm*_


End file.
